


Were you expecting an exploding pen? We don't really go in for that anymore... (or do we?)

by AtoTheBean



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies)
Genre: Gadgets, Gen, M/M, a bit of snark, all the gadgets, incredulous Q
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-02
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:54:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24497527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtoTheBean/pseuds/AtoTheBean
Summary: Rumour has it, back in the days of old Boothroyd, the gadgets were divine.Or ridiculous, depending on your point of view.And Bond doesn’t have any complaints about Q’s tech, but he still gets a bit wistful when he reads those old mission reports.
Relationships: James Bond & Q, James Bond/Q
Comments: 118
Kudos: 277
Collections: MI6 Cafe MiniBang





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> The prompt for this mini-bang story is “Gadgets.” I must confess, I’m not really well acquainted with “classic Bond” (i.e., non-Craig Bond) films. I saw some of them as they came out, but didn’t often watch them again. But I did remember that gadgets played important roles, so I did my research. Fortunately, there are multitudes of “Best Bond Gadgets” online (https://www.digitaltrends.com/cool-tech/best-most-ridiculous-james-bond-gadgets-all-time/) (https://www.popularmechanics.com/culture/movies/g985/23-most-memorable-james-bond-gadgets/) (https://www.pastemagazine.com/tech/james-bond/the-25-best-james-bond-gadgets/). This story pays homage to some of those classic Bond gadgets, while also imagining the Craig-era characters reacting to them. 
> 
> Art for chapter four was created by the lovely Medus Zoa. I'll embed it when we get there, but meanwhile here's a direct link you can use to go look and show some love! (https://zoasart.tumblr.com/post/619798710825680896/my-part-of-the-collab-with-the-wonderful http)
> 
> And thanks to Ducky and Midrashic for their brainstorm sessions and betaing.

Rumour has it, back in the days of old Boothroyd, the gadgets were _divine_. 

Or ridiculous, depending on your point of view. 

Projectiles launched from cigarettes or so-called “boom boxes”, or _pens,_ as Q alluded to in their first meeting, his snarky rebuff to Bond’s disappointment with his gear showing a disdain for the flashiness of that bygone era.

At first, James thinks Q eschews all manner of _gadgets_ , opting for simple tools. Not that Q’s tech isn’t elegant and useful, because it is. It has saved Bond’s life any number of times. The palm-encoded Walther is a brilliant safety feature. And the so-called radio — which Bond suspects is actually much higher-tech judging from the range alone — brought in the cavalry in dramatic fashion. More recently, the “rather loud” alarm on his watch managed to hurt Blofeld and secure Bond’s escape.

No, Bond doesn’t have any complaints about Q’s tech. 

But he still gets a bit wistful when he reads those old mission reports.


	2. Projectile Launchers

“You’re having me on,” Q protests.

“Not at all,” Bond insists. “You can look up the old reports. Boothroyd gave one of my predecessors a ski pole rocket launcher when they anticipated a chase on a mountain slope.”

Q looks aghast. “Were there many chases while skiing, back in the day?”

“You’d be surprised,” Bond sighs, examining a piece of tech on Q’s workbench.

“Global warming, I suppose,” Q muses, taking another tiny screwdriver and carefully removing the cover plate. “I haven’t seen much of that since taking over.” He pauses for a moment, tilting his head. "How did that even work? How was it deployed?”

Bond leaves the scrap of tech alone and puts his hands in his pockets. “If the report is accurate, the projectile came out of the end of the ski pole. The agent turned around and skied backwards down the slope, raised the pole, and [shot his pursuer](https://files.digitaltrends.com/images/ski%20pole%20gun.gif).”

“Go on!”

“I’m serious.”

Q adjusts the work lamp so he can see the electronics more clearly. “Let me get this straight. An agent steals something from an adversary whose lair happens to be at the top of a mountain, and he’s been outfitted by Q Branch with skis — which he’s apparently stashed somewhere handy before infiltrating their base — along with custom rocket-launching ski poles. And as he makes his getaway _on skis,_ one of the henchmen follows, also _on skis_. And as he’s barreling down the slope, the agent flips around so he’s facing uphill, raises the ski pole, and… the handle has a trigger, I suppose… and shoots him dead.”

Bond shrugs. “Well, I don’t know if he died, but the shot ended the pursuit.”

Q takes a pair of forceps and removes a wire in the exposed handle. “And then I imagine he flipped back around again and skied the rest of the way down the mountain.”

“So it would seem,” Bond agrees.

Q is quiet for a moment as he works, replacing the wire and soldering a new one in place. “But you complain when I give you a Glock instead of a Walther.”

“It pulls to—”

“I’m just saying, I don’t see how you’d have any accuracy with a bloody ski pole that doesn’t have a proper sight or handle or anything.” He pantomimes waving a long stick in front of him. “While skiing. _Backwards_.”

Q may have a point.

“How did they even get it through security at the airport?”

“I’m not sure there was such scrutiny back then,” Bond admits, watching Q test the connections. When Q is satisfied, he replaces the cover plate and turns to Bond.

“Do you really think you’re going to have to make your getaway on skis?”

They both turn to the large bank of monitors on the wall. There are maps showing roads and infrastructure, lists of assets, and a picture of a nefarious base on the top of a mountain.

“It will be more subtle than a helicopter. There’s only one road up there. If they realize I’m there and block the road, I have no chance. If I park there,” Bond points at the map, “I can approach on foot in the early morning. You said they had minimum guards overnight. It will be a slog, but I can take my time. The meeting is at 4. I can stash the skis before infiltrating the building during the meeting, and then get back down the mountain quickly. Hopefully, before they even realize I’ve been there.”

Q sighs. “I hate to admit it, but it seems to be our best option. Still, I think you’re better off with a more familiar projectile launcher.”

Q hands him back his Walther, and Bond smiles as the green lights illuminate when he grasps it.

Three days later, Bond is barreling down the side of a snowy mountain, data in his coat pocket, two pursuers dead thanks to his trusted Walther. Unfortunately, there are more. And the clip is low.

“Sitrep!” Q demands through the earpiece.

“Two still in pursuit. We’ve entered more trees and it’s harder to get a shot. For me and for them, thankfully.”

“Still have your ski poles?”

Bond’s heart nearly skips a beat. “Yes.”

“The top of the rubber grip should flip open with a bit of upward pressure from your thumb.”

It’s easy to flick the cover up and reveal the small button.

“Should I flip myself around and ski backwards?”

“Don’t be daft. How far behind you are they?”

Bond checks over his shoulder while maneuvering around a tree. “Maybe 100 meters.”

“Keep skiing, point the end of the ski pole behind you — not at them, at the snow maybe 20 meters back — and press the button.”

James looks back over his shoulder to make sure he knows where they are and then does as Q instructs. A second later a broad sheet of snow explodes from the ground between him and his pursuers, making it not only difficult for them to continue, but impossible to shoot him or even see which direction he’s going. He speeds off to the east, toward the car.

“That was effective,” Bond compliments.

“Oh, good.” Q sounds genuinely relieved. “We didn’t have time to beta test it.”

“May I ask what it was?”

“Well, I still can’t imagine you’d get sufficient accuracy for a rocket launcher while skiing, but something less reliant on accuracy — scattershot, for instance, or in this case a broad spray of exploding shots — seemed like something that could at least afford some cover, if not actually stop the pursuit.”

“I think it’s done both,” Bond agrees, catching view of the road. “I’m at the Rover. Stashing the skis now and making for the border.”

“Still no alerts on your aliases or vehicle plates, and the vehicles coming off the mountain are definitely having to take the long way ‘round. You should have no trouble at the crossing.”

“Ta, Q.”

“My pleasure, 007. Safe travels. And do try to return the tech. That’s a prototype, you know.”

“I’ll make a special effort,” he responds with a smirk. “After all, I don’t want to discourage innovation.” At Q’s soft snort, he says, “Bond out,” and starts down the steep mountain road.


	3. Stealth

“An invisible car?” Q asks incredulously.

James shrugs, looking down at the shiny black Aston DB-10.

“Like… like Wonder Woman’s jet? Could the agent be seen through it? Because that doesn’t seem terribly helpful,” Q insists.

“No,” Bond corrects, chuckling. “I didn’t get access to the specifications, but it seems there was a film around the body of the Aston with micro-cameras that would project what they saw to screens on the other side of the vehicle and [make it look](https://66.media.tumblr.com/4356de98ef0e27ada20d422f858f7b02/tumblr_inline_o0h940c3OW1tvm1vp_500.gifv)—”

“Transparent,” Q muses. “That’s quite clever, actually, if they could get the mapping to work properly. But I’m having visions of distortions drawing even more attention than a simple flat color would.” Q walks to the other side of the vehicle, whether assessing its appropriateness for the stealth mission they are planning, or deciding if he could replicate Boothroyd’s design, James can’t say. “What did they do about the windscreen?” he asks abruptly, turning to Bond. “Or the top… were there cameras on the undercarriage? And the wheels… that _had_ to be delicate tech, but it was…” He shakes his head as if rejecting his own conclusions. “It was strong enough to actually be driven on?”

“I don’t know, Q. You’d have to dig through the archives to find the specifications, assuming they survived the explosion of MI6. They never built another, so far as I know. Perhaps the tech wasn’t as successful as the rumors say.”

Q hums thoughtfully, making a note on his tablet.

“What happened to it?” he asks, looking back up at Bond. “Is it in a warehouse, somewhere?”

“I think it was destroyed.”

“Oh,” Q responds knowingly, with just a tinge of disappointment in his voice. “Did your predecessor drive it into a river? He did, didn’t he? I have so much more sympathy for _my_ prede—”

“Something about a laser, I think,” Bond interrupts, because Q should really have let that _go_ by now.

Q smirks as if he can hear Bond’s thoughts. Then his expression reverts to confusion. “How did they shoot it if it was invisible?”

Bond shrugs. “[It left tracks in the snow.](https://thumbs.gfycat.com/GivingInfiniteFoxterrier-size_restricted.gif)”

Q just stares wide-eyed for a few seconds and then bursts out laughing. Bond smiles back and puts his hands in his pockets, enjoying the sight of his amused Quartermaster.

“So, my predecessor spent god knows how many hundreds of thousands of pounds and experimental engineering on an _invisible_ car, and sent your predecessor into the _snow_ with it, rendering the invisibility moot? And an Aston is a terrible choice for the snow… I wouldn’t send you into the snow in even a run-of-the-mill Aston. For your own safety.”

“I’m not sure the mission _started_ in the snow,” Bond says.

“Oh, of course,” Q amends, wiping at his eye where a tear had actually formed in his mirth. “Your predecessor was no doubt off to rescue some beautiful damsel in distress and got a state-of-the-art vehicle blown up for his trouble. Ah, well. I guess we’ll never know how that car worked. But getting back to making _your_ car as invisible as possible... we might take a less grandiose approach.”

He swipes at his tablet and a satellite map appears on the wall monitor above the car. “You need to infiltrate the docks while eluding electronic surveillance,” he says, pointing at said docks on the map. “We’ll start with a cloak of darkness. You said the shipments are typically at dawn. If we go in an hour or two before, we’ll have some advantage.”

“And disadvantage,” Bond counters. “I still need to navigate. But there will be fewer guards in the middle of the night.”

“That’s possibly less of a concern if they're watching with cameras… hmm. Okay, give me a few days to retrofit this beauty. I hate to mar the new paint job, but needs must.”

A week later, Bond is driving the refurbished Aston at three in the morning. The paint has been changed to a matte black color that apparently not only absorbs light but radar and lidar frequencies as well, making it impossible to track with most traffic surveillance cameras (as well as most traffic speed guns, which Bond intends to put to the test on his way back to England). Everything that had been gleaming chrome is now a dark titanium alloy with similar radiation-absorbing qualities. The windows have all been coated with a film that darkens them and makes them less reflective, except the front windscreen. _That_ has been replaced with a thick pane that has an embedded night-vision display. In daylight or normal mode, it functions as a typical window. But with a flip of a “night mode” toggle, the headlamps switch to infrared and the windscreen becomes a display for active infrared and thermal night-vision.

“It’s all existing tech,” Q explained when he allowed James to test drive it in a pitch-black garage. “The same technology is in the latest military-grade night ops goggles. I just had to make sure the display film didn’t interfere with the transparency of the windscreen for day use. And make the whole thing a bit matte as well. Wouldn’t want to go to all this trouble and have a light glint off some shiny spot and expose you.”

“No, we wouldn’t want that,” Bond had agreed.

His only complaint about the car is that Q has added soundproofing in the engine case and a muffler that makes the usually satisfying purr of the Aston sound more like the wheeze of a Prius. He suspects the performance will be compromised. But as he parks near a warehouse at the docks without having triggered any alarms, he finds he doesn’t mind. And a few hours later as he drives back well above the speed limit, he admits that even a somewhat compromised Aston is still a satisfyingly fast car.


	4. Tracking

“I read that they used [radioactive lint as a tracker](https://y.yarn.co/1e286d4d-0c5f-42df-a064-066e3fb8593c_text_hi.gif), back in the day,” Bond muses as he watches Q at his workbench. He finds he’s been spending quite a lot of time in Q’s workshop of late. Strange how this has become their new normal.

“That sounds rather dangerous and not terribly effective,” Q replies, taking an even smaller screwdriver to the Omega Seamaster watch he’s currently fiddling with.

“Well, at the time electronic transmitters were much larger than they are today… much harder to clandestinely plant on someone. Whereas lint,” he says, picking a piece off his own suit jacket, “is much less likely to be noticed.”

He looks back up to see Q smirking at him. “True. Most people aren’t as fastidious as you,” Q acknowledges. “I can see how it would have been possible to plant it, but anything radioactive enough to be detected at any distance couldn’t have been very good for the mark. Nor the agent while he had to carry it.”

“No doubt the risks to the agents were deemed acceptable compared with being shot at. And the risk to the marks were certainly considered inconsequential.”

“Hmm. You're likely correct. Okay, let’s see if this is better,” he says, handing the watch to Bond.

James slips it on and fastens the clasp. “Much better. Thank you, Q. You know, the Seamaster was a favorite of Boothroyd’s as well. It shows up in quite a few missions, substantially altered of course.”

“Of course,” Q says. “Let me guess, a rocket launcher? Poisonous darts?”

“Laser,” Bond corrects with a grin. “And I think I read that there was one in which the watch face became a circular saw.”

“That… that sounds a bit dangerous as well.”

“Says the man who made one explode,” Bond counters. “Apparently, it helped cut through ropes that were binding the agent to a pipe. Which could be useful.”

“I’ll take that under consideration for next time. Now, _this_ watch appears to be an analog timepiece, but press here,” Q pauses to depress the winding gear on the side, “and a digital display appears in the glass face with loaded maps, showing the location of the transmitter pins. Right now, they’re all focused on you, because they haven’t been deployed. Each of these little pins,” Q explains, pointing at what appear to be decorative bumps on the outside of the face, “can be removed like so.” He removes one with his fingernails, exposing thin, kinked wires. “Those barbs will help the transmitter stay where you put it on cloth, and a resin on the underside is sticky enough for most other surfaces. When the watch is in this mode, the face is touch-sensitive, so you can zoom in or out.”

James touches the watch several times and spreads his fingers to zoom in on the map. Q steps away, carrying the tiny transmitter with him, and Bond watches a small light move away from the others.

“Excellent, Q,” Bond praises.

The boffin looks away for a moment and then retrieves a pair of forceps from his workbench. “They pull out easily,” he explains, “but getting them back in requires more precision than I can manage with bare hands.” He picks up the tiny object in the forceps and holds Bond’s wrist steady as he leans nearer to the watch face. It’s the closest they’ve ever been, Bond thinks, and though it’s over before it’s begun, James finds himself flexing his hand in the sudden absence of Q’s touch as the boffin finishes and pulls away.

“Any questions?” Q asks, setting the forceps on the workbench and not quite looking back up at James.

“It seems quite self-explanatory,” Bond says, depressing the winding gear again to make the digital display vanish.

“R has your documents and travel itinerary. Be safe out there, 007.”

It deploys beautifully in the field. There are 12 transmitting pins, and within three days on the mission, Bond has tagged potential nuclear fuel dealers with eleven of them. He’s sent details of each one back to Q while keeping track of their movements. And Q, with his technological prowess and just… cleverness… rules out nine of them over the next two days as Bond tracks the stragglers.

“It’s got to be either Issac Hoover or Alvin Woods,” Q concludes over the comms. “I’ll start a program to cross-reference with CCTV in the times and locations of the other meetings before I leave tonight, and maybe we’ll be lucky by morning.”

“Ta, Q. Get some rest. We’re nearly there.”

“You too, 007. Q out.”

James sips the last of his drink looking out at the water from his balcony. Though he can feel things coming together, his mind struggles with some disquiet. It feels like a calm before a storm; no doubt because by tomorrow, the chase will be on. He still can’t quite put his finger on the niggling feeling in the back of his mind, and whether it pertains to the mission or Q. Sighing, he throws back the rest of his scotch and goes to bed.

Hours later, he’s woken by a soft sound and vibration on his wrist. He taps the watch face and sees that the small dot representing the last remaining transmitter in his watch is being approached by one of the others. One that he’s already deployed. Which means…

He reaches for the Walther under his pillow just as he hears a faint scrape near the door. He waits silently, deciding whether to shoot first or try to subdue the intruder currently crossing the room more quietly. The glint of a gun pointing at him makes the decision for him. Shooting through the pillow to stifle the sound as much as possible, he surprises his would-be attacker with a shot in the shoulder.

Chest, actually, he realizes as he gets up to inspect the damage, turning on the light and kicking the gun away from Alvin Woods, who is lying on the floor gasping.

Damn, right through a lung. He looks outside, wondering if Alvin is alone and whether his bungalow is isolated enough for the shot to be undetected. After keeping a close lookout for a moment, he retrieves his comm and activates it.

“Q Branch, R here,” comes a crisp, soft voice.

“I need a cleanup crew,” Bond says, watching the life drain from Alvin’s eyes.


	5. Camouflage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've embedded the art in this chapter, but want to invite you again to shows Zoasart some love: https://zoasart.tumblr.com/post/619798710825680896/my-part-of-the-collab-with-the-wonderful.

“You know, I’ve taken your advice and started reading through the old mission reports from the Boothroyd era to see what sort of tech was issued,” Q says as they leave M’s office with the parameters of the next mission.

“Oh? Anything pertinent?”

“As a matter of fact, I found several interesting examples of camouflage used for infiltrating an adversary’s base from the water.” Q pushes the button for the lift and turns to Bond, straightening his glasses. “One notable example was a snorkel suit that allowed the agent to approach while blending in with the local fauna.”

James gets an unpleasant feeling in his stomach as the doors open and Q walks through. “Local fauna?” he asks as he follows.

“[A stuffed seagull attached to the agent’s head](https://i.gifer.com/eNY.mp4),” Q explains.

Bond turns to see Moneypenny at her desk biting back a grin as the doors slide shut. Sighing, he says, “Surely it won’t be necessary to glue a stuffed bird onto my head.”

“Perhaps you would prefer a personalized submersible. There was one mission — infiltrating an island off the coast of India, I think — in which the agent gained access via a submersible...”

That didn’t sound so—

“[Shaped like a crocodile](https://files.digitaltrends.com/images/alligator%20sub.gif).”

— bad. James sighs again as the doors open and they head down to Q Branch, Q walking fast enough that James has to rush to keep up.

“You’re angry,” he says.

“That’s a _brilliant_ observation, 007. You must be one of those spies I keep hearing about. Not one of the _subtle_ ones, though, are you?”

“I didn’t mean to kill Alvin Woods.”

Q stops in his tracks. “You think I’m upset with you for killing an assassin who snuck into your room in the middle of the night to kill you _?”_

Bond shrugs. “We clearly needed him alive, based on what M just told us.”

Q starts walking again and shakes his head. “Alvin being dead is a setback, but he was apparently operating on a long leash. So far as I can tell, there’s no chatter indicating that they’re even aware he’s dead, yet. Unlike the _city block you exploded_ the following day, in pursuit of Mr. Woods’ associate, which I assure you they are _very_ aware of. And _that_ makes infiltrating their meeting all the more difficult, now that we don’t have an in by planting a bug on Mr. Woods.”

“I’m not a good choice for that infiltration,” Bond admits. “They know me, now.”

“Oh, I’m well aware, Mr. I-don’t-use-my-aliases-we-die-like-men,” Q scoffs. “How boring my life would be without you in it, Bond. Go write your reports while I figure out how to raise the dead or…”

Q stops with his hand hovering over the door to the branch.

“Q?”

Q’s eyes refocus on Bond and look him over assessingly, from head to toe. After a moment, he says, “Go away, Bond. I need to think.”

“I will. And I’ll finish my reports. But first I want to say thank you. That’s twice now that the ‘alarms’ on your watches have saved my life.”

“Oh,” Q says, blinking owlishly for a moment before straightening his glasses, color heightening in his cheeks. “That’s… You’re quite welcome, 007. I’m pleased the watch was able to wake you. As vexing as it is that Alvin Woods is dead, it’s much better than if he’d succeeded in his goal.”

“Why, Q. I’m blushing.”

Q snorts and opens the door. “Go away, Bond.”

“Yes, Quartermaster.”

Four days later, he’s waiting outside Heathrow reading the texted instructions from Moneypenny on where to meet someone from Q Branch for his tech and tickets. He’s surprised when Moneypenny herself drives up to the kerb, dropping off none other than a somewhat flustered Q.

“Sorry I’m late, darling,” Q says as he gets out of the car and moves to the boot. “Got held up at the office and then traffic was horrid, but I have our bags and tickets to Morocco and everything.”

James quickly picks his jaw up off the ground and follows Q to the boot as other travelers hasten past. “No worries, love. Let me help you with that. You have the passports?”

“Of course, Damien, I have everything. Even the shirts you left in the bedroom.”

Bond raises an eyebrow. So, they’re posing as domestic partners, it seems. James can work with that. “That was kind of you. My, we’re not packing light, are we?” he says helping to pull out two suitcases and a heavy carry-on.

“Well, you know me… never _can_ decide what to wear.”

And that’s when James notices that Q is dressed… not like Q. He’s in jeans and a soft jumper that’s nearly the same hue as his eyes. It’s light enough that Q’s lithe physique isn’t hidden. And the frames of his specs are different… sort of blocky in a fashionable way. He looks… good. And suddenly James remembers the feel of Q’s hand on his wrist when he replaced the tracking pins on the watch. The way he’d leaned in close to see the delicate work. It had felt almost intimate, but had been over before James could even quite process it. He hadn’t given it another thought, but now suddenly… he’s thinking. And it’s really not the time...

Moneypenny waves as she drives off, and he and Q make their way to international departures. There’s no way for Q to tell him the plan until they have some privacy, so for the next few hours James just takes his cues from Q’s lead and the documents Q provides — he’s Damien Griffiths, international banker, and Q is Julian Walsh, IT specialist working at the same bank, judging from their business cards. And Q’s lead is intriguing. He’s… he’s smiling. He leans in slightly when he talks to James. Like they _are_ intimate. He doesn’t touch James, but to anyone watching, it’s clear they’re close. Out of curiosity, as they head to the gate, Bond places his hand on Q’s lower back, and is pleased to see that he not only doesn’t startle, he glances at Bond and leans into it just a bit.

The flight is uneventful. Q hands him a magazine that he’s surprised to find includes stories detailing the people who will be attending the meeting, but still no information as to how they’re going to infiltrate it. Bond orders a scotch and starts to commit it to memory, anyway. Q works on his laptop the entire trip, coding… something… while sipping a gin and tonic and leaning toward Bond almost absently.

It’s not until they’re in their hotel room — their _single_ hotel room with one bed — that Q drops the facade. Silently, he faces Bond and signals for a room sweep, looking every bit the Quartermaster. He pulls a piece of tech from his carry-on and begins an electronic sweep, while Bond starts a physical inspection of the room. Ten minutes later, they are both satisfied, and Q sags into a chair.

“I’m so sorry I couldn’t give you more warning. It was all I could do to pull everything together and… this tech is complicated to deploy. I couldn’t just hand it off and be sure you’d be successful. And it was too late to try to train another agent to assist and—”

“It’s fine, Q. I’d rather have you than another agent, anyway.” Q gives him an odd look, and he covers quickly, “I’m used to working with you in my ear. I’m used to you supporting me. We… we find our stride quickly. You’ll just be nearer at hand. Another agent… it probably wouldn't be as smooth.”

Q considers that for a moment and nods. “Well, I’m not sure you’ll like this plan, but it’s the best I’ve got.”

Bond pours them each a glass of scotch from the well-stocked bar and raises an eyebrow as he hands one to Q.

“R was able to break into Alvin Woods' phone — thank you for delivering that, by the way — and has convinced the people who were concerned when he went dark that he got caught up in your explosions and had to lay low a few days before replacing the cracked screen on his phone. He’s still expected at this gathering, which means we can still get to the higher-ups.”

“Except that we don’t have him,” Bond says, words slowing as he goes, because he’s getting a bad feeling about that gleam in Q’s eyes.

“We might,” Q counters, opening one of the suitcases.

Damn. “I don’t look anything like him, Q,” James says, finally seeing where this is going.

“You’re exactly his build,” Q asserts.

“He had shoulder-length brown hai—”

Q pulls a wig out of the case.

“Brown eye—”

Q tosses a contact lens case at him, which he catches with a sigh.

“Please don’t tell me I have to wear prosthetics on my face.”

Q’s smile is less evil than he’d expect. “Not at all, 007. I found the specifications for the ‘invisible car’.”

“All right,” Bond says, not sure what that has to do with anything.

“I’m still not sure how they programmed the mapping with the camera footage that long ago, but the projection film is quite ingenious, and this is a much simpler application.” He removes a hard case from the suitcase. “Do you want to see tonight, or wait until tomorrow? We’ll have hours before the meeting to make sure it works.”

“I’ll sleep better tonight if I’m not curious,” Bond admits.

“Go on, then. Do you know how to put those in, or do you need me to help you?”

Bond hates wearing contacts. _Hates_ it. But he’s not going to tell Q that.

“I’ll do it,” he says, retreating to the loo.

Q follows just as he’s gotten the second one in, blinking at the irritation. He looks at his reflection and finds it disquieting. He looks less threatening without his piercing blue eyes.

“Wash your face with this, please,” Q requests, placing a small plastic bottle and some cotton rounds on the counter.

“What is it?”

“Just an astringent to minimize the oil on your face and improve the seal. When you’re done sit on the toilet cover and I’ll apply the film.”

It feels...strange. Nearly as thin as cling wrap, but stiffer. Once it’s on, Q uses a small roller to ensure that the seal is tight with no air bubbles. He checks the seal at the edge, tracing his fingers along James’ brow, his temple, his jaw… his face so close during the inspection that James feels the need to close his eyes against the intimacy of Q’s intense expression. Against the way Q’s fingers are causing something to twist behind James’ navel.

“Good, good,” Q mutters, unaware of his effect on James. He turns away for a moment and then James feels the wig being placed on his head… not secured, just positioned.

“Okay, open your eyes,” Q says, reaching behind him for a tablet.

James does, turning to face the mirror. He looks… like himself, really. Or a doll of himself, skin a bit too smooth, eyes and hair wrong, but otherwise—

It changes in a moment as Q activates something on the tablet. Suddenly his cheeks look higher, his nose more narrow, his complexion paler and less ruddy. He looks like Alvin Woods.

“Your voice is wrong, but R has been explaining to those emailing Alvin that he lost it due to dust during the explosion. If you minimize who you talk to and only speak in a hoarse whisper, you should be able to attend, plant a new series of pins I’ve brought for your watch, and report back on their plans. I’ll be in your ear, and we have two agents ready to pull you out if it goes tits up.”

James nods at his reflection, turning his head to examine his new features.

“I know it’s not how you usually work. If I could think of someth—”

“It’s a good plan, Q. You're right, I’m not generally much of an actor, but Alvin was low on the totem pole… people won’t be scrutinizing him and I really just need an entry. Besides, I know the most about his associates. I’m the best one to do it.”

“And I have more. His phone was a wealth of information on his personal relationships. You’ll be well-briefed.”

The mission goes off perfectly. As they fly back to London together two days later, Q busily works on his computer while Bond lies back and pretends to sleep, thinking all the while about what he’s learned about Q. Not just that he’s a brilliant inventor and excellent mission support, but the smell of his aftershave when he’s standing close, the way he bites his lip when he’s concentrating, how his hair stands straight up first thing in the morning, and the little sigh he makes as he’s falling asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know I'm evil for skipping over the bed-sharing and potential fake dating... I trust you to imagine it well...


	6. The Kitchen Sink

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter. Thanks again to Mid and Ducky for betaing, and Zoasart for the lovely art! To the decades of Bond films offering dozens of gadgets to choose among. And thanks to all of you for reading and commenting.

“007,” R calls as Bond enters Q Branch. “The Quartermaster is down in Lab 3. I’m not sure he’s sorted everything yet, but you may as well head down.”

Bond merely raises an eyebrow and turns toward the elevators that head down to the explosives laboratories.

He finds Q looking very unhappy, four monitors in front of him that all seem to display specification drawings of some sort, along with digital copies of old, faded photographs. He knocks on the door jamb and Q nearly jumps out of his skin.

“I’m sorry, Q. Of all places, I shouldn’t startle you in here.”

Q shakes his head. “It’s fine. If I were still working on something delicate I wouldn’t have opened the door. And we have a lot to cover; come in and close it behind you.”

“Am I getting more than my usual Walther?” Bond asks, pulling the door shut and approaching the workbench.

“Haven’t you read the briefing?”

Bond shakes his head. “I just got it off M. He said something about crashing a formal party and that I should report to you for equipment before five.”

“As if I’m leaving today,” Q mutters. “Fine, he’s punishing me. I dared complain about the mission so he’s making _me_ be the one to tell you.”

“Tell me what?” Bond asks, something cold and heavy forming in his stomach.

Q sighs. “The good news is, you won’t be crashing. We got you an invitation to the party... well, your alias… The party is happening at a winery and inn about an hour north of Paris, but it’s set up more like a compound. Security is… very tight. Your host, Daniel Deloffre, is a philanthropist and advocate for medical relief in Africa.”

“And why am I after him?” Bond asks, wishing he’d read the brief before coming.

“Because one of the pins from your watch that you planted in Morocco ended up on the vice president of his company. He may not be involved—”

“Or his non-profit may be a front for trafficking nuclear material.”

“Exactly,” Q sighs. “As I was saying, security is tight. I’m trying to hack the internal cameras, but I’m not in yet.” He turns and leans a hip on the workbench and crosses his arms, looking much more like the man James shared a room with on the last mission than the normally straight-backed Quartermaster. “I can’t send you with your Walther. The invitation says no weapons, and there will be a metal detector as you enter. And even if I fashioned one out of plastic or… or _wood_ — which I considered — they’d find it because they’re going to search _everything_. Pat you down and search every goddamned bit of luggage coming into the inn,” Q spits.

“Guests are encouraged to arrive early in the day, get a tour of the facility, and then be invited to retire to your room to change for the party. That’s good for us because it means you can get a lay of the land in daylight hours, do a bit of reconnaissance for escape routes in case things go tits up, but it's bad because—”

“They’ll have plenty of time to search my bags in the room,” James guesses.

“Exactly. So there can be no obvious weapons, comm equipment, _lockpicks_. Nothing.”

That… is going to present a challenge.

“But how do you really feel about it, Quartermaster?”

Q huffs a dark chuckle. “M’s well aware of my opinion. I actually considered tendering my resignation, but then they really would have sent you out with nothing but your charm and good looks.”

James raises an eyebrow at Q’s favorable assessment. “I’ve often managed on little else.”

“Not on my watch, you haven’t. Every weapon I give you for this mission has to look innocuous or you’ll be made. It’s asinine and… and more dangerous than it needs to be. And I’m _furious_ that it’s come to this but I’m still going to do my best to outfit you.”

“Q, it’s fine,” James says.

“It’s not. They are treating you like you’re expendable. Sending you in without proper tools. Without proper _support_.”

Bond raises an eyebrow. “It seems to me they are trusting me to do my job.”

“Maybe,” Q admits, deflating a bit. “Perhaps I’d feel more comfortable with it if I felt they’d done _theirs_. I’m not happy with the information we’re moving on. Which might be okay if we were sending you in fully armed and with communication devices, but they insist everything has to be cryptic. And you’ll be on your own. Even our usual stealth comms can be visible if someone’s looking, and M is convinced they’ll be looking. It’s not how I’m used to operating. I’m used to having some ability to monitor progress in real-time, _help_ in real-time, offer information or options or…” He sighs and leans against the workbench. “I’ve been digging through those old mission reports for inspiration. Mind you, some of those old gadgets were _beyond_ ridiculous, but others… others are quite elegant. Take this one, for instance.” Q picks up a watch and hands it to him. Another Omega Seamaster.

“Let me guess… rocket launchers? Poison darts?” he asks, parroting Q’s earlier ridicule of those early gadgets.

“[Garotte wire](https://i1.wp.com/www.bondmovies.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/12/frwl.gif?resize=660%2C395&ssl=1),” Q says, pointing at a seam on the watch case. Bond pulls it and unwinds a coil of wire.

“Very nice, Q. You’re clever, as always.”

“That’s not my cleverness. That’s straight out of collective mission memory, though I think it started in the hands of the enemy. Now, _this_ was one of Boothroyd’s inventions,” Q says, handing Bond a tube.

“He was old enough to have invented toothpaste? Not even I would have imagined that.”

Q rolls his eyes. “[It’s a form of PE-4 explosive that’s soft enough and sticky enough to squeeze onto a surface](https://files.digitaltrends.com/images/dentonite.gif). A simple wooden match can be lit and stuck in it as a fuse, giving you enough time to seek shelter before the explosion. And if they search your bags, they’re unlikely to confiscate toothpaste or a first aid kit containing matches. I even put a bit of actual toothpaste in the top of the tube so it will taste minty if they open it.”

“A toothpaste that causes cavities rather than prevents them,” Bond muses with a smirk, laughing at Q when he glares.

“Please, do be serious 007. I’ve gone to some amount of trouble, here.”

“Sorry, Quartermaster. Go on.”

Q rubs his eyes under his glasses and reaches under the bench for a shoebox, handing it to Bond.

“New oxfords? Wait. These don’t have a blade in the tip, do they? Because I read about that mission.”

“Unless you have kickboxing capabilities I’m not aware of, a 1-inch blade to the shin seems a hard way to kill someone,” Q says, picking up both shoes and clicking their heels together. A blade does emerge from one toe, but a pair of metal barbs come out of the other. “Now, if you can _Taser_ them first and get them on the ground, a toe blade seems more helpful.” He offers James a small smile and hands them over. “They will set off the metal detectors,” Q acknowledges, “but many shoes do because of their metal shanks. And those same metal shanks in these ones will camouflage the equipment if they’re put through the metal detector.”

Bond takes them, clicks the heels together again, and watches the tools retract into the soles.

“I’m not sure they’re terribly comfortable,” Q admits.

“I’ll cut back on my dancing plans,” James says, putting them back in the box.

“Your dinner jacket is upstairs, fashioned from stab-resistant fabric. And then there are these,” he adds, handing Bond a small velvet box.

He opens the box to find a pair of silver cufflinks and a thick silver-toned ring. “These are quite handsome,” James says, admiring the simple but elegant design.

“More to the point, they’re _useful_ ,” Q replies, pointing to the square cufflinks. “This one includes a small camera, disguised in that center jewel — just press on the side here like you’re straightening it — and this one is an audio recorder. They won’t store as much as your phone would, but they’ll be less conspicuous at the party, and they’ll store enough. And _this_ is a smart ring, not unlike the ones used by SPECTRE. Press this etched bit here and it will activate a program to lift contacts, texts, and browser history from the nearest phone. You’ll feel the ring vibrate once if it works and twice if it doesn’t. Assuming the whole enterprise is using the same security as Alvin Woods, you should be able to clone data off anyone in the organization. Other guests might not be available to you, depending on how their security is set up.”

Bond slips the ring on his right hand, noting it fits perfectly. “Is _my_ phone susceptible to that sort of attack?”

Q just offers him a withering glare, which he takes as a clear negative. Bond closes the velvet box and sets it with the other things.

“You know this cover well. We were able to confirm from Alvin’s phone that although he knew who you were and tried to kill you, he apparently hid that from the organization. Trying to bag you and then use the kill to propel himself up the ladder of the organization. This is largely the next tier up. They didn’t know Alvin well, if they are aware of him at all, and they should only be vaguely aware of you as a potential buyer. So we have that going for us. You know some members of the organization, but you should be able to pull data off a dozen others, and that will help us tremendously. If all goes well, you take a tour, sip some wine, attend the party, spend the night, and depart the next morning with the other guests.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

Q’s face goes grim. “You might want to bring your toothpaste and matches to the party in your pocket. There’s a low stone wall that surrounds the entire compound. The drive enters through a gate in the wall and on the satellite I can see an area to the south of the buildings that looks to be a small parking lot. For an event like this, they’ll do valet, so I’m sending you with an extra key to the vehicle in case you need a hasty retreat.” He slides it over the benchtop as his phone rings.

“What vehicle are you sending me with?” James asks, eying the plain fob.

“Something nondescript with a large boot,'' he says, picking up his phone. “Q here. Yes, he’s with me. We’re nearly done… Yes, fine. I’ll send him up shortly.”

He hangs up and looks at Bond. “R has your passport and dinner jacket ready. Where were we?”

“The boot.”

“Right.” He hands Bond another key. “If it goes tits up and something renders the car a liability, go to the boot and use this. Keep it on you.” Q’s phone buzzes again, and he looks at the screen and dismisses it. “I don’t know if you’ll need it, but I’m just throwing the kitchen sink at you. You aren’t bringing a computer or tablet; you’re traveling as light as possible, and you’ll be wearing most of your tools.” He sighs, looking at his empty hands. “That’s all I had time to pull together.”

In some ways, it’s more than James has ever been sent out with before. He’ll miss his Walther, but Q has gone above and beyond, all things considered. He gathers it together and nods at Q in thanks, turning to leave.

“James?”

Bond turns to find a pensive expression on Q’s face.

“Be careful, please.”

Bond nods. “This is a lot of new equipment. I’ll try to bring it back.”

“Sod the equipment!” Q spits. “Sod it all. Just… keep your eyes open.”

Bond nods solemnly, surprised at Q’s concern. And touched by it.

Bond drives to France early the next morning in the absolutely most boring black car in the fleet, arriving at the vineyards and inn shortly after noon. He watches as the car is taken by the valet and parked by the south wall of the compound, smiling at the welcome committee as they show him toward the security station. He’s half-convinced that Q is being overly cautious, until he’s through security putting his watch back on and the man behind him gets stopped. A carbon fibre gun — the sort that isn’t meant to trigger metal detectors — is discovered under his jacket. As the man is taken away for what’s likely to be _very_ unpleasant questioning, Bond is grateful that Q’s work is more subtle.

He is given a room key and assured his luggage will be moved there if he’d be so kind as to join the others for a tour. He sips wine as he walks among the vines in the warm sun and amongst the barrels in the cool dark of the cellars, hoping that no one looks too closely at his things as they search his luggage. He’s wearing the watch and the ring, and has the spare key for the car and whatever is in the boot in his jacket pocket, along with his wallet and passport… but the shoes, cufflinks, and everything else are vulnerable in his bags.

The tour offers an excellent opportunity to match the blueprints he’s memorized to the actual site. He finds his multiple exits while chit-chatting with the guests. He tests the ring, counting the buzzes, and noting that it works about half the time. Which means he’s pulled information off five phones before they’re released back to their rooms to dress.

The suit fits perfectly. James admires the cut of it as he inserts the cufflinks, checking they are also good to go. He clicks his heels to make sure those too are in working order, smiling as the blade and prongs project from the toes. He clicks them again to make them retract.

“There’s no place like home,” he murmurs as he heads out of his room.

The party goes well… until it doesn’t. He’s collected data off 25 people by the time he sees the light of recognition enter the eyes of a guest across the room, and he knows he’s been made. At that point, the chase is on. He’s pursued subtly at first, so as not to alarm the other guests, which means he can use the taser and garrotte wire to quietly dispose of the enemy in a game of cat and mouse that covers balconies and cellars. In the end, subtlety doesn’t cut it. He’s going to be killed or captured if he doesn’t make a grand show of it. He uses the toothpaste to set off a series of small explosions at one end of the party so he can slip out the other side of the room in the panic, running through the kitchens with the cries of pursuers behind him and crashing through a door to where his car is, spare key at the ready.

Only to find his nondescript, boring black car has been parked in.

“Bloody fucking—”

He opens the boot as the pandemonium approaches, removing a small blanket to unveil a… well he’s not sure exactly. A mass of steel and chrome and leather. He trusts Q, though, and Q said that this would be useful, so he finds the keyhole between what appear to be handlebars, inserts his key, and marvels as a _motorbike_ unfolds.

“You really do want to keep me alive,” he muses as he climbs on and starts the engine, weaving between oncoming goons with guns. He gets past them, finds the gate to the compound blocked by fleeing guests and swarms of security personnel, and decides to bypass it all, using a pile of dirt as a ramp to jump over the low stone wall and leave the chaos and cacophony behind.

At least mostly.

He’s chased because of course he is. It isn’t a proper mission if he isn’t chased. By a car… carrying goons with machine guns. The bike is nimble though. More responsive than the cars following him, small enough to weave between traffic on the motorway, and surprisingly — _delightfully —_ fast. He leaves the pursuit behind and races home to London, drunk on adrenalin and gratitude.

He enters Q Branch four hours later, shortly after one in the morning. A night-crew minion points him toward Q’s office. He can see Q bent over something through the crack of the ajar door.

Brilliant, _brilliant_ Q. James enters, silently closing the door behind him, and leans against the door jamb.

Q’s intent on a piece of tech attached to a leather pouch. James smiles and breathes easy for the first time since he left London. The whole drive home — once he’d lost his pursuers — he’s thought of almost nothing but Q. The way he flew all the way to North Africa and back, just to make sure his tech could be deployed properly and the mission a success. Whose watch “alarms” had saved his life twice. Whose “kitchen sink” worth of tech had saved him tonight.

And here he is, tinkering away, seemingly without a care—

Q sniffles and reaches for a pair of pliers, his hand shaking.

“Q?” James asks, taking a step forward.

Q spins to face him, eyes red. “J— James?”

“What’s happened?”

“You’re alive?” Q stammers.

“Of course. Your tech was brilliant as ever.”

“But we lost you! There was an explosion—”

“—your toothpaste.”

“And we saw your phone move north on the A1. And then… and then you just... disappeared.”

James pulls his phone out of his pocket, confused. Ah. “It’s dead. It must have been activated in my pocket and burned through the battery.”

Q sniffs again, smiling this time. “I’ll have to work on making it agent-proof.”

“Good idea,” James agrees, moving forward, wanting to soothe his distressed Quartermaster. “Your tech saved my life tonight, Q. I used every single thing.”

Q nods, clutching the edge of the workbench behind him. “Good. That’s good.”

“And I think I got quite a bit of data,” James adds, taking the ring off and placing it on Q’s workbench. They’re close now. James can see just exactly how green Q’s eyes are.

“That’s… well done,” Q says, eyeing James’ chest as James removes the cufflinks and sets them on the counter, finally seeing what Q’s been working on.

“Are those _bagpipes_?” James asks.

“Oh, ah… yes,” Q responds, looking down at the half-open pipes and bits of tech. “I was worr— needing distraction, and I’ve been going through those old mission reports. There were [flamethrowing bagpipes](https://files.digitaltrends.com/images/flamethrower%20bagpipe.gif). And, well, _you’re_ Scottish and destructive, and I just—”

James surges forward and kisses him, swallowing the startled gasp and holding him close as Q melts against him and sighs into the kiss.

It lasts a delightfully long time. Long enough that James presses Q into the workbench, into the _bagpipes_ , causing an ungodly sound. They both startle, chuckle into the kiss, and then moan as Bond presses himself against the long line of Q’s lithe form. It lasts long enough for James to wonder why the hell he hadn’t done this sooner. Like when they were sharing a bed near a beach.

“You’re bleeding,” Q whispers as he ends the kiss, pulling his hand away from James’ shoulder to show the tinge of red.

“I’m not sure that’s mine,” James says. “Then again, perhaps it’s best you check.”

“Best that _I_ check?” Q asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes, delicate matter. Something for the Quartermaster to sort.”

“I see. Well, I don’t really have a full medkit down here. Just a first aid station.”

“Hmmm. That _could_ be a problem. Best we move somewhere with a more comprehensive setup.”

“Like medical?”

“Oh, I don’t think that’s necessary,” James says, wrapping an arm around Q’s shoulders and turning him toward the door. “I’m confident I have all the supplies we’d need back at my flat.”

“Oh, do you?”

“Absolutely. If you think you can drag yourself away from the... bagpipes.”

“I think I could,” Q agrees, looking back at the tech on the bench. “Come to think of it, I’m not sure they have a practical application.”

“They do seem rather less versatile than your usual, elegant gear.”

Q gives him a wry smile. “Flattery, James?”

“Merely observation,” he says, leaning in close to Q’s ear. “I’ll be happy to give you a full debrief,” he whispers. “On each piece of equipment, and how it... performs.”

Q huffs a laugh and shivers.

“I’ll need details,” Q insists breathlessly.

“I promise to be _extremely_ thorough. It will probably take all night.”

“So, you’re proposing… an _oral_ report?”

“Oh, you’re worse than I am.”

“No,” Q chuckles. “But I’m a quick study.”

“That you are,” James says, leading him from the room. “Now, about that exploding pen…”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
